


Dulce Et Decorum Est

by Phoebe (Emeraldwoman)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwoman/pseuds/Phoebe





	Dulce Et Decorum Est

  
**Bent double, like old beggars under sacks**   


Harry Potter pulled himself upright and wiped his mouth with toilet paper, the sickly sweet smell of vomit still curdling under his tongue.

Ron rapped on the door again. "Are you sure you're all right, mate?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm coming," Harry said, more curtly than he'd intended. "Go back out there. I'll just be a minute."

He could feel Ron's hesitation, a palpable, smothering presence. "If you're sure," he said finally.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Something I ate." Harry forced a laugh. "You'd think the Ministry could feed people better."

Ron laughed too, equally weakly. "Yeah. Especially you. Hero of the hour and all that." Another awkward pause. "Well, see you out there."

Harry heard him swing through the door, his footsteps leave, and breathed deeply in the momentarily relief of solitude. This was a mistake. The stink of the mess in the toilet bowl rushed down his throat, and what was left of his dinner rushed up it. He could only lean over the bowl, bracing himself against the wall until the clenching convulsions of it were over, and when it was done he was shaking.

At least he hadn't splashed his new dress robes. Hermione would have killed him. He checked himself in the mirror to make certain, his eyes automatically flickering to the gaudy decoration pinned to his chest. The Order of Merlin, First Class.

You killed a man, and they gave you a medal.

Actually, he wasn't certain if Voldemort had really been a man by the end of it. And he _was_ certain that he'd had to be killed.

And two hours before he'd found himself here, in this comfortably appointed bathroom that stank of vomit, they'd given him a medal.

He couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror. But his clothes looked fine, so he took a deep breath and went back to his dinner.

 

  
**Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge**   


Remus Lupin trudged through the slush of the unseasonably late snow and cursed himself for a fool.

He'd wanted to see Harry's moment of triumph, wanted to see James and Lily's son receive a tiny portion of the honour he deserved for killing their murderer. He'd expected to be pleased. He'd expected to be proud.

And at first, he had.

But he'd seen Harry's downcast eyes, the way his mouth twisted whenever anyone slapped his back or shook his hand. He'd watched Ron and Hermione read Harry's mood like two human barometers, and he'd read, in turn, the meaning of the anxious glances they cast to each other.

Gradually, he'd felt ashamed of his bloodthirsty glee. And contrary to his hopes, numerous glasses of Ogden's finest had not drowned the shame.

It took three attempts to get the right key in the door, and success made him feel no better. He'd lived there for nearly three years, but Number 12 Grimmauld Place would never be his home.

"You should have been there," he said out loud, swaying in the silent hallway. He stumbled up the stairs. "You would have felt the right things. It would have been _right_ , for you."

No one answered.

 _Sirius_ , he thought, just before he fell asleep, still fully clothed. _Sirius, please help me._

 

  
**Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs**   


Professor Severus Snape closed his curtains the moment he spotted the first fireworks.

He had made a bargain with himself, a promise that he would not break. He would not face Potter's arrogant face at the ceremony, his triumphant smirk as they pinned the First Order of Merlin to his chest.

He would not watch James Potter's son receive the adulation of the wizarding world.

The Ministry had been upset. There had been several frantic owls. Didn't he realise he would be rewarded too? Didn't he want the recognition he deserved? Didn't he want to applaud Harry Potter?

Yes. Desperately. And never, though it cost him everything.

He turned to the familiar burden of his cauldron. He had one final link to the Order of the Phoenix, one final duty to perform. Lupin's potion was too complicated; it must be made simpler, simple to the point where even Lupin could brew it.

When he no longer had to suffer Remus Lupin's gratitude three torturous days every month, when he was rid of them all, when he was no longer _necessary_ , Severus Snape would finally be able to rest.

 

  
**And towards our distant rest began to trudge.**   


Harry held Hermione's hand as they walked up the front path to their small flat.

He was wearing the red and gold mittens she'd knitted him, and she was wearing the leather gloves he'd bought her from Gladrags Wizarding Wear. With all those layers in the way, there was only a faint, absent-minded pressure to indicate that there were two human hands involved. He had to concentrate to remember it.

After they got inside and peeled out of their clothes and climbed under the blankets, it was better. There in their bed there was only the feel of skin on skin and the sounds of flesh meeting. Two bodies making a little warm space for themselves in the dark.

Afterwards, he cried into her hair and shook as she held him.

"It wasn't so bad," she said. "And anyway, it's all over now."

These were both lies, but Harry was pleased that she bothered to tell them. Still, he felt one of the small cracks in himself widen a fraction more as the meaningless, soothing words flowed over him.

"Tomorrow," she added, "We can really get started on the mail."

"Why?" Harry asked, and felt her stiffen beside him, felt the measured quality of her neutrality. When Hermione was angry, the hairs on her neck bridled, like a cat. Pressed against her back, lips to the back of her neck, he could feel them stir.

"You don't want me to deal with it all myself, do you?" she asked finally, voice forced and light.

"Sorry," Harry said, and a part of him knew that he'd deliberately made the word sound as unapologetic as possible. "Let's go to sleep."

After a long while, Hermione did.

Harry listened to her calm, even breathing, and grimaced into the darkness, working tongue over teeth. He'd brushed his teeth twice, but the taste of vomit was still faint in his mouth.

 

  
**Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots**   


Remus dresses in such haste that he breaks his shoelace.

He does things like this often, when he forgets to be careful; small feats of clumsy strength that owe nothing to his scrawny human body and everything to the wolf that hides within it.

"Damn," he mutters helplessly, and tries to knot it together. But the shoelace is almost all knots as it is, and even his clever fingers can make nothing of the remnants. In the end he drags off his other shoe and both socks, resolving to walk the tunnel back to the school grounds barefoot. It's still dark. No one will see him make his way from the Whomping Willow to the Gryffindor dormitories.

Behind him, Sirius makes a noise that sounds like "Nrfgle."

Remus freezes, heart pounding frantically in his thin chest. "Go, go," he thinks to himself, and realises that his lips are uselessly mouthing the words.

But Sirius is sitting up, utterly comfortable in his own nudity, and his grey eyes are taking in the sight of Remus Lupin, dressed in shabby school uniform, shoes in hand.

"Walking out on me, Moony?" Sirius asks, his tone amused.

Remus stares at him, unable to put voice to the thoughts whirring through his brain. The truth is, if he was able to say it, he is leaving because last night, even as he reveled in the startling, glorious present, he knew what the future would be. He's leaving because in that first time, he saw the last time, when Sirius would get angry, or frightened, or just bored and leave him. He's leaving because he doesn't deserve Sirius, and Sirius certainly doesn't deserve a monster like him.

He says, "Er."

"Suit yourself," Sirius shrugs, pushing himself to his feet. "But I think the etiquette is to give me a kiss before you go."

Remus kisses him, because he can't say anything. Kisses lead to touches, and touches lead to caresses and caresses lead to heated gasps and grunted moans and _deeper harder faster oh fuck_ and he doesn't leave that morning after all.

While they're serving their detention for skiving off class, Sirius keeps smiling at him, and Remus keeps smiling back.

 

Remus woke and took a deep, startled breath. He hadn't dreamed of that first time for years. He struggled, pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking in the winter noonlight, bright around the edges of the curtains.

"Fuck," he said out loud, an echo of the dream. "Fuck. I overslept."

He was still in the sweat-rumpled suit of the celebration last night, but he was also unforgivably late. It would have to do. He swung his legs over the edge and groped for his dress shoes, clumsily fumbling them onto his feet, long fingers tugging frantically at the laces.

When the shoelace broke, it sounded like a whipcrack through the room.

 

  
**But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;**   


When Severus opened the door, he was momentarily blinded by the unexpected light. The man in the doorway was only a dark shape outlined against the stark brightness of a grey winter sky. Severus usually worked in purposefully dim light, where the subtle changes in a potion's colour and shade were more visible to the well-trained eye. Bright light always reduced everything to outlines.

"You're late," he snapped, as his eyes slowly adjusted to pick out details. Lupin was unshaven, unkempt. His lip curled. From the way he looked - and smelled - the werewolf had slept in his clothes.

"I overslept, Severus," Lupin said apologetically. Severus could smell faint traces of Firewhiskey on his breath, unsuccessfully concealed below a layer of cologne.

Severus took a step back out of that cloud of scent. "Should I add lateness to the signs by which one may spot a werewolf?" he inquired icily.

Lupin laughed his ingratiating, spineless laugh. "We might have some trouble getting it in the textbooks," he said, walking into the dim light of Severus's rooms, swinging the door closed behind him. He glanced over the shelves of vials, the neatly polished cauldrons. "As I understood your owl, you require some of my blood for this version?"

"Fresh blood, Lupin," Severus said sourly. "Not poisoned by the remnants of whiskey."

Lupin's head snapped up towards his. In the dim light, his pupils were enormous, his eyes almost completely black. "My unusual metabolism has ensured that the remnants of whiskey have long since faded from my bloodstream," he said quietly.

"Being a monster must be terribly handy when one wants to overindulge," Severus agreed, and took a savage delight in the deep breath Lupin was forced to take before continuing.

"You weren't at the ceremony yourself," Lupin said mildly.

Severus felt his lips draw back in a mirthless smirk. "Some of us still have work to do."

Lupin winced.

"Some of us," Severus added, inspired by some dark impulse, "still have purpose."

Lupin's own lips drew back. Without looking, he reached for the small silver knife Severus had polished and laid carefully on a bed of black velvet, held his arm over the silver bowl, and sliced. Blood spattered into the bowl, hissing as it made contact with the metal.

"Enough?" Lupin asked bitterly. Without waiting for an answer, he wrenched the door open and strode out, arm still bleeding.

He'd left the door open to the world, to the light. Severus stared into the pool of blood. It was black and oily now, the colour of Lupin's eyes in the dark.

"No," he said, and shut the door.

 

  
**Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots**   


Since he'd killed Voldemort, the owls had come every morning, bearing Harry letters from people he had never known and never met, who apparently all thought themselves entitled to write to him regardless. At first they had been congratulations, effusive praise, and thanks. Over the weeks, as he responded to few of them, and heeded the entreaties of even fewer, the tenor of the letters had changed.

Harry watched Hermione sort through the piles of parchment the evening after the ceremony.

"You don't have to do that," he said ungraciously.

"I know," she said, calmly scanning the letters. "But someone has to." She finished sorting them into two piles, and looked up at him.

"This pile," she said, pointing at one, "is complaints, sycophancy, and requests for money. Do you want to read through them?"

"No," Harry said shortly. "I think I've seen all the variations on 'you're supposed to be a role model, young man, you should show your face in public more often' by now."

Hermione nodded, and tapped the second, much smaller pile. "These are cases of genuine need and organisations to which you should probably consider speaking." Her face was very carefully neutral.

Harry stared at her. "No," he said.

"Just consider it, Har-"

"No!" Harry propelled himself from the chair. "When you said 'do the mail', I thought you meant that I should help you write polite letters saying no! That's all I've got to say to those people, all of them! No!"

"You can really _help_ people," Hermione pleaded.

"I already helped!" Harry shouted. "I helped! I did it! No more!" He snatched the parchments from her hands and tossed them across the room. The leaves of paper drifted and settled over the small room.

He knew it was coming. Hermione would never relinquish the responsibilities of being right. "Harry-" she began, wearily, patiently.

"No. I get to have my own life now, Hermione." He stared at her, so calm, so patient, and felt the words rise up his throat. When they came, they were not shouted. It would have been easier if he could have blamed them on rage. This was slow, and thick with contempt. "And you can get your own fucking life, too. Stop leeching onto mine."

If he stayed, she'd struggle not to cry in front of him, and he was tired, too tired to watch her hold tears back. He took his coat, and slammed the door behind him.

 

  
**Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.**   


Remus unwrapped the bandage, and grimaced at what lay underneath it.

The cut was jagged and deep. Not deep enough for bone, though that had been luck. And he'd cut in the meatiest part of his forearm, just below the elbow, so no sliced tendons. He sighed. At least it had finally stopped bleeding. He wrapped it again and leaned back in his chair by the fire.

He'd had worse, of course. Even had worse self-inflicted wounds, if you could consider what the wolf did to him self-inflicted. But this, like the broken shoelace, was a warning of what he could do when he got sloppy.

He'd thought, that after the war, after he'd got his _Prophet_ story and his shiny medal and the thanks of a grateful nation, that it might be over. Anti-werewolf legislation had been carefully reviewed and stricken from the statutes, and he considered that almost as great a victory as Voldemort's defeat. A happy ending.

But although the world might be more welcoming to him now, that didn't change what he was.

He should have been despairing, or furious. But under the warm haze of the whiskey he'd drunk for the pain, all he could feel was a resigned disappointment. After all, he had always been aware of the futility of his hopes, even when he'd allowed himself to have them.

He stood and drained the glass. The bottle had been new that evening, and was almost empty now, but he was conscious of no more effect than that golden smoothness and a slight dizziness that made him stumble slightly as he made his way up the stairs.

Any normal man would probably have been sick by now. Any man would have had a hellish hangover to look forward to in the morning.

Snape, who paid no attention to honours or awards, who hadn't even attended the ceremony to receive his own commendations, had watched his blood turn black in the bowl. Snape had seen what he'd done to Bellatrix Lestrange. Snape was right.

He was still a monster.

  
**GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- an ecstasy of fumbling**   


"I humbly suggest sleeping, Professor," the clock on the mantelpiece said politely.

"Not yet," Severus replied, carefully cutting open the last flower.

"You did request that I alert you at this time," the clock pointed out.

"I know. Thank you. But I'm too close to the solution to halt now."

"As you wish, Professor."

"Valerian stamen," Severus murmured. "So simple, really. Valerian root has so strong a sedative effect that one overlooks the more subtle promise of the stamen. A fixing agent, a preservative, a mild sleep aid‚Ä¶ useless, of course, unless reaped with a silver sickle at the rise of the half moon. Even then, large quantities are needed. And who would have the patience to extract so many stamena, with so much care?"

The clock ticked quietly to itself for a moment. "You, Professor?" it ventured.

"I," Severus agreed. He added the contents of the tiny bowl to the second cauldron. Steam rose, faint and fragrant with the ghosts of flowers. The first cauldron had already boiled itself nearly dry, a fine green powder in the bottom all that remained of a process as complex as any of the most difficult of his long years of expertise. Adjusting the heat of the fire with his wand, he set the second cauldron to boiling.

The two powders that resulted should finally set him free.

A pinch of each powder, mixed together with any quantity of the werewolf's own blood, would create a safe and unabashedly foul-tasting potion that would allow a werewolf to retain his own mind during the painful transformation. Simple, transportable and requiring absolutely no input from himself, the Valerian Solution represented innovation, magical prowess and flawless technique.

Severus permitted himself a smile. Hands trembling only slightly, he reached for Lupin's blood, quiescent and dark in its bright silver bowl.

"It is very early, Professor," the clock ventured. "Perhaps testing should wait until later this morning? After you've rested?"

"Be quiet," Severus said, without any particular heat. He took a pinch of powder in each hand and dropped them into the bowl, stirring them together with the tip of his second-best wand.

The solution slowly turned golden, and Severus Snape allowed himself to smile again.

Then, abruptly, the mixture flashed a deep, forest green. Severus took a step backwards. "What-?" he began, and then the thick green fumes started rising from the bowl. Severus staggered backwards, catching his hip on the table, feeling his eyes widen in horror.

"Run, Professor!" the clock called shrilly, but he needed no warning. He was already moving towards the door, his back to the foul solution spewing its deadly gas, his cape lifted over his mouth and nose in an automatic motion. He burst into the cold morning, coughing as the cold air hit his lungs.

With no ceremony, he leant over the gutter and thrust his fingers down his throat, throwing up the little he'd eaten for supper. There was no green taint to the vomit, and for a moment he thought he might have escaped the ill-effects of the gas.

But he could still smell it; the nauseating stench of cut flesh and rotting flowers - and under it all, the sweet, smoky smell of Ogden's Firewhiskey. Colours danced at the edge of his vision as he turned his head. "No," he muttered. "No."

When the first hallucination began, he knew he would not be able to deny it for long.

 

  
**Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time.**   


Harry had been walking most of the night. By dawn he was thoroughly and satisfyingly lost, and wishing he could be less confident that there was nothing in the dark streets of London more dangerous than himself. The biggest danger to Harry Potter was waiting at home, probably as sleepless as himself, with huge dark circles under her eyes and a collection of carefully rehearsed arguments to hurl at his head.

A troll attack, hopefully followed by hospitalisation, would be a welcome alternative. At the very least, it'd give him something he could hit back.

He turned another corner and glanced down the street with a feeling of vague recognition. Grimmauld Place was somewhere nearby, he thought. Assuming he could find it, he could impinge on Remus for breakfast. Possibly even lunch.

Resolving to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, he spun on his heel, and was nearly knocked over by a black-clad figure running down the street.

Harry's wand was suddenly in his hand without any conscious effort. "Stop!" he shouted, but the figure was already spinning to face him and sagging against a wall, panting in harsh breaths. Harry recognised the greasy, thin black hair draped over the man's face and, scowling, jogged quickly towards him, still grasping his wand.

Closer, he could see that Snape's skin was yellowy and looked parchment thin. His rasped breathing seemed to be paining him, and a foul smell clung to his robes.

Harry put his hand on his shoulder. "Snape. Are you all right?"

The man jerked away from him, greasy hair whipping across his face. "Don't touch me, Potter," he snarled.

Harry took a step back. "Fine," he said shortly, and turned to go.

Snape caught his arm, and Harry started at the wiry strength in the man's grip. From appearances, Snape was all bone and sallow skin. Apparently there were muscles concealed under those black robes.

"You and your pet werewolf," Snape snarled. His eyes were slightly glazed. "Trying to get me killed. I know! I know!"

Harry blinked. "Remus? What's he got to do with it?"

"His filthy blood! Halfblood monster!" Snape leaned in, his breath sour on Harry's face. "I know! You said it was just a prank, and Dumbledore believed you! But I saw his teeth, Potter! When I went up the stairs, I saw the werewolf's teeth!"

Abruptly, Harry realised that Snape wasn't talking to him. "You're confused, Snape," he said, making an effort to keep the repugnant contempt out of his voice. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

Snape sagged against him. "You saved me," he muttered. "I owe you." He spat. Thick phlegm landed on the pavement beside Harry's shoes "Hate you, hate you always."

"I am not my dad!" Harry shouted. He shook Snape hard. "You're fucking crazy, Snape! He's dead. It's over, okay?"

Snape fell away, stumbled on the pavement, and collapsed in an ungainly heap in the gutter.

"Fuck," Harry muttered and knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. The man's eyes snapped open and stared up at him.

"Potter?" he asked, and something faded in his eyes. He pulled himself to his feet again, ignoring Harry's grudgingly offered hand.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

Snape sneered. "A mishap in the lab. Everybody's favourite werewolf nearly killed me again, this time by giving me spoiled ingredients." His eyes glittered malevolently. "He assured me his blood was untainted by alcohol, but I suppose honesty was too much to expect from a monster like Lupin."

Harry thought about hexing him, but decided it was too much effort.

"Since you're back to your normal unpleasant self, I'll be off," he said instead. "Do me a favour, and don't have any more psychotic episodes on the street. At least not where I can see them."

Snape's lip curled. "You're not in a position to give me orders, Potter. You never were. And you'll never see me again. All I need is another lot of blood, and I'm done, done with all of you." He spun on his heel, robes swirling around him, and stalked away. If his fall had hurt him, he gave no sign of it.

Harry watched the black-clad figure stride down the street. "Good."

 

  
**But someone still was yelling out and stumbling**   


Remus wakes, and rolls over. Daylight slants over the bed. Nothing intimidates the dust mites that dance in those bands of light. Even the master bedroom of the Most Noble House of Black, all dark mahogany and oak, cannot compel those tiny, defiant specks to be sombre.

Sirius shines in the light which stripes over his naked back and thighs. His prison-pale skin is luminous, and the dancing mites blur the edges, as if he was half-illusion. Sleeping, face tranquil, he looks angelic.

Remus knows this is a deception, but it is a pretty one. Too pretty, in fact, not to disturb. He leans over Sirius and blows lightly into his ear.

Sirius wakes with a jerk, kicks out like the dog he spent too many years being, but Remus is used to this, and has stayed tantalisingly out of reach. He blows in Sirius' ear again, and Sirius shudders, and closes his eyes.

"Something to say, Moony?" he asks, voice rough with sleep and other things.

"Yes," Remus whispers hoarsely. He runs a hand over Sirius' luminous skin. "You need to dust in here more often."

Sirius lets out a barking laugh, and then a moan as Remus' hand runs further down his back, lightly skims his arse, gently slides between his thighs.

"Remus," he whispers, then flinches. "Ow. Remus, that hurts."

Remus blinks at him, then stares in horror at his hands.

They are becoming claws.

"Remus!" Sirius shouts, no longer tame under his hands. There are gashes on his back, and the bright blood bubbles out.

"No," Remus stammers, disbelieving "No, no‚Ä¶", but the transformation is rolling up his body, ripping away clothes in a sickly, painful tear of sinew and bone and flesh. Sirius has rolled off the bed and stumbled to the window. He tugs at the blinds. The light in the room is moonlight, a full moon in a dark sky, and at the sight, what is left of Remus Lupin flees to the darkest reaches of his mind and the transformation is complete.

The wolf stretches, and leers at the wounded man. The easy meat.

 

Remus wakes screaming. Sirius is sitting on the end of his bed.

"What?" Remus stutters, sinking back into his pillows. "I was dreaming again."

"You're dreaming now," Sirius tells him. "I'm dead, Moony." Then, matter-of-factly: "You'd better answer the door.

 

Remus Lupin woke, weary and bone-sad, in the grey light of a London winter morning. From downstairs, a dull pounding reverberated.

 

  
**And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--**   


Severus rapped his knuckles on the thick door again.

"Lupin!" he shouted. "Open this cursed door!" He could feel sweat trickling down his spine, where it gathered unpleasantly in the small of his back. Despite the sweat, he couldn't seem to stop shivering.

It was natural to shiver in winter, he reminded himself. It was normal for him to feel cold. The sweat was merely a result of the exercise. It had nothing to do with his unpleasant encounter with the infuriating Potter brat.

When Lupin opened the door, his face was flushed and warm. Severus heard himself snarl, watched himself step forward and slap the werewolf across the face, hard enough to leave white marks on the pink skin.

I struck the monster, he thought, half-amazed, half-proud.

Then the fear hit him, and he staggered against the lintel, breathing heavily as he held himself upright, fingers groping for a wand that wasn't there. He tried to push himself back and away from the counter-attack, so desperate to escape it took him a moment to realise Lupin was merely standing there, hand pressed to his cheek.

"What-?" Lupin asked, his voice dazed. His gaze sharpened as he took in Severus' stance. "Severus. You're sick."

Severus laughed hoarsely. "Tainted blood," he spat. "Your tainted blood made me ill."

Lupin stood back. "You'd better come in," he said neutrally.

Severus jerked his arm away from the other man's silently proffered support and stalked in to the dim hallway. "You assured me your metabolism would clear the alcohol out of your bloodstream, creature," he said.

Lupin nodded. "It would have."

"Then how do you explain this, you bloody fool?" Severus snarled, pointing at himself. "I reek of your foul whiskey! It was in the gas!"

Lupin took a step forward, and then another.

"Stay back!" Severus shouted.

Lupin sighed. "I want to smell you, that's all," he explained wearily. "But I can do it from here." As Severus watched in bemused horror, Lupin stretched his neck out and sniffed at him. The werewolf closed his eyes thoughtfully, and sniffed again.

"No whiskey," he said calmly. "Although, Severus, I have to ask‚Ä¶ how much valerian are you using for the potion?"

Severus stared at him. A halo abruptly flickered into life around Lupin's face, glowed hectically, spitting sparks of light, before it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "It's not the valerian," he said. "It's the whiskey. I can smell it now! It's all over you, all over me!"

"You're still sick, I think," Lupin said mildly, and slid his hand into his pocket. "If you'll allow me, a mild calming spell might-"

"No!"

"A cup of tea, then?"

"Stop patronising me, wolf!"

Lupin's exhalation was half-sigh, half-groan. "What do you want?"

Severus stared at him, leaning thin and tired against the hallway wall. Lupin's hair was getting long, curling at the nape of his neck. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and he'd bitten the nails of his long fingers to the quick. The halo flickered around his face again, took longer to die away.

"Nothing," Severus whispered. "I want nothing. I want an ending."

 

  
**Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light**   


"Harry!"

Harry blinked up from his cup of coffee and turned to greet Ron's wide grin. It faded.

"You look like shit, mate," he said bluntly, slinging himself into the chair opposite Harry's. He signaled the waitress and smiled at her. "Hot cider, please, love." She smiled back and sashayed away.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said. "Always nice to know I can count on you for a compliment." That wasn't fair, he knew, but he was tired, and Snape had rubbed raw the calm he'd managed to reclaim through the night's long walk.

"You can go to your girlfriend for compliments," Ron shrugged. "Honest assessment of your not-so-dashing looks, that's my job."

Harry thought he'd perfected his blank face over the war years. He'd sent men and women out on missions without ever hinting at the true goals of their futile attacks and he'd once been tortured for seven hours without cracking before Kingsley and Tonks had arrived to set him free. He'd told a frantic Narcissa Malfoy that her son was dead, while Draco waited in a room down the hall, tracing out the archaic runes of Voldemort's last, most ambitious spell.

But hours of training and years of practice provided no defence against Ron's eyes.

"Trouble at home?" he asked. He glanced around the caf√©, filled with witches and wizards quietly nursing their morning coffee before early morning shifts. "What are you even doing here? Isn't this early for you?"

"I'm probably going to break up with Hermione," Harry said, and found the thought come into clarity only after he spoke the words.

Ron stared at him. "No, you're not," he said flatly. "You can't."

"Ron, you don't understand." Harry pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "She keeps wanting me to do these things. Charities and events and lectures‚Ä¶ I just want it to be over. She won't let it end."

When he took his hands away and opened his eyes, Ron was glaring at him, red spots glowing on his cheeks. "Never mind," Harry said bitterly. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"That might be the only thing you got right," Ron said dangerously. "Don't you dare fuck up this thing with Hermione, Harry. Don't you fucking dare."

"But it's not _working_."

"Maybe not right now!" Ron argued. "But you're meant for each other. Any fool can see that. Stick with it. It'll work."

Harry felt his lip curl. "Why? Because you were with her first? Because she dumped you? If I don't want her after all, it makes all your noble self-sacrifice pretty cheap, doesn't it?"

Ron's head rocked back.

Harry heard the leaden thump of his own words and dropped his eyes. "Ron, I'm sorry," he began, not knowing where to begin. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm really tired, I'm saying stupid things."

"Yeah," Ron said, his tone heavy. "Right." Harry heard the scrape of his chair against the floorboards. "I'd better get to work."

"Ron-" Harry began, looking up. Ron was shrugging into his shabby coat.

"Leave it, Harry. We'll pretend it was never said." Ron looked at him. "Any of it." The bell jingled as the door swung closed behind him, and the waitress looked up from the bar, frowning at Ron's back, and at the mug of cider on her tray.

Harry went to her. "I'll pay for it," he said quietly.

Through the dim green panes of the windows, he could still see Ron walking away.

 

  
**As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.**   


Remus collected blankets from the linen closet, briefly leaning his forehead against the polished wood of the door. Snape had refused food and drink. Purebloods could be stubborn about the older traditions, and accepting sustenance meant to accept guest right, an unspoken bond against harming one's host and being harmed by him.

Remus had helped debrief Snape after his last dinner with Lucius Malfoy, to which he had contributed a salad laced with slices of hemlock root. It had been an odd choice for a master of potions, a simple poison any Muggle could eat unwitting. In his home, on the land to which his family had been bound by blood and memory for centuries, Lucius had been protected against most magics, and thought himself secure. So Snape had used hemlock, ancient, horrible hemlock, and shared a brandy with the man he'd murdered before he left.

Snape had broken guest right, and traditionalists from both sides had reviled him for it. Perhaps that was why he would not accept it now.

Nevertheless, the traditions said nothing about blankets, and the man's rank, cold sweat was strong in Remus' nostrils. Snape would take the blankets and be warm, if Remus had to hold them down on him. Remus folded two of the thickest under his arm and walked back towards the entrance hall. He was only halfway there when he heard the crash, and then he dropped the blankets and ran.

The shock of what he saw held him motionless in the doorway.

Snape was stumbling around the hall, crashing into one wall only to push himself desperately away to impact upon another. One of those wild surges had knocked down a heavy mirror and splintered glass littered the floor. The shards glittered, reflecting whirling black robes and a contorted face, eyes constantly rolling away from whatever terrors haunted him. Snape was whispering to himself, spitting curses and threats through twisted lips, and the thick, febrile stench of him filled the space.

Lucius groped for pity, and found only disgust.

"Creature!" Snape shrieked, and dragged fingers gone to rigid claws down his throat. "Monster!"

Blood welled in the lines scored in the tender flesh, and Remus stared at it, his own fingers working. Bellatrix Lestrange had died choking on her own blood, clutching at the tattered remnants of her throat, unable to even voice her agony.

Without him, without help, Snape could die, killing himself to escape some private horrors.

"Lucius, help me!" Snape gasped, and clawed at his throat again. He screamed, then, a sound gone beyond words.

Deep in the hindbrain, the wolf thought _he's not needed anymore_.

The thought curled lazily down his spine, held him in its warm, electric stasis. Remus stood in the doorway, unable to move.

Snape was not his friend - not even his guest - and Remus owed him nothing.

 

  
**In all my dreams, before my helpless sight**   


Severus's legs are tired. It is a long way up the stairs. However, Lupin's secret is up here, and a little soreness in the morning is a welcome trade for that knowledge. There's something wrong with the halfblood, some vile and nasty thing quite separate from his impurity. He wants to know what it is.

Behind him, there is a shout.

"Snape!" Potter shouts. "Don't go up there!"

Severus curses and increases his pace, legs pumping. He does not look behind him; Potter has a Chaser's endurance and agility, and will quickly make up his lead. His eyes are fixed on the doorway only a little above him.

"NO!" he hears, and then his hand is on the doorknob and he flings it open.

Before him are terrors from his worst dreams.

The werewolf looks up from his prey and bares his bloody teeth. He catches up the body and flings it at Severus, who catches it reflexively, cradles it in his arms.

It is Bellatrix, beautiful, haughty Bellatrix, with her hooded eyes glassy and her long black hair matted and filthy. Thick red blood pulses from the rent flesh of her throat, and Severus weeps in pity and terror.

He looks up at the beast. "Creature!" he howls. "Monster!"

"She deserved it," the monster says calmly, in Lupin's quiet voice. He gestures smoothly, in a hand gone to claws. "So do you. Look."

Severus looks at the body again, and it is his own he holds. His own blood pumps over black robes, pools in the hollows of his sallow cheeks.

Severus drops it with another cry, and backs away. The wolf advances.

The door should be just behind him, but when Severus looks over his shoulder it recedes to unimaginable distances.

"Lucius," he sobs. "Help me!"

But Lucius only sits in his favourite armchair in the corner and shakes his head. His face is green, his lips distorted and smeared with foam. "I don't owe you any courtesies, Severus," he says, and nods at the Lupin-monster.

Severus sobs, and turns, and runs, and all the while the werewolf's hot breath is on his neck.

Suddenly, James Potter is there, eyes dark with dislike, and he pulls Severus forward into his arms, away from the wolf.

"You owe me," he says bitterly.

"I hate you," Severus murmurs, and falls asleep in that grip.

 

  
**He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.**   


Harry had weighed up the available options for a man of his means and abilities at this hour of the morning, and had again opted for breakfast with Remus over apparating to Seattle for a late afternoon coffee to replace the one Ron had interrupted.

Besides, he was guiltily aware that he hadn't spent enough time with Remus lately. During the war, they'd seen a lot of each other, of course, since the headquarters of the Order had been Remus's home. But in the weeks afterwards, he hadn't wanted to go to the headquarters for a war that was over. Too many memories, few of them good.

Hermione, he knew, visited Remus regularly. He'd tried to ignore that.

Lately, she'd taken to pointedly mentioning that Remus didn't look well. He'd ignored that too.

Well, he could be just as saintly as Hermione Granger if he wanted to, and to better effect. After all, though he'd never say it, Remus was fonder of Harry Potter than of his girlfriend. They could have a talk, a cup of tea, some toast. And Remus could give Harry advice on how to handle this situation with Hermione - real advice, not Ron's stubborn adherence to fairytale convention. The thought cheered him, and he walked easily, confidently, arms swinging at his sides.

Halfway down Grimmauld Place, Harry heard the screaming from Number 12 and broke into a run.

The door was ancient, imbued with old magics of blood and runes to hold strong against intruders. But not for nothing was Harry Potter counted the most powerful magician of his generation; he blew the door open with a single curse, and charged through the splinters and dust.

"Remus!" he shouted, then spotted the figure in black robes cringing in the hallway, blood staining the neck of his robes. As he had so many times in recent months, Harry did not think, but acted, diving at the man and knocking him down.

With an involuntary gasp, he recognised Snape's face, looking worse than their brief encounter that morning. He saw, too, the scraps of flesh under the man's fingernails. Snape's wrists were scrawny and the bones grated unpleasantly as he forced the man's hands down from his throat. "Stop it," he growled. "Snap out of it."

Snape's eyes, which had been staring over his shoulder, gradually focused on Harry's own eyes, inches from his face. The jagged lines of blood on his throat were already clotting. He hadn't had time to reach a vital point.

"You owe me," Harry said bitterly, remembering the oldest laws of magic.

Snape smiled at him, oddly serene. "I hate you," he murmured, and drifted off to sleep.

Harry couldn't quite believe he truly slept at first, but the man's breathing was deep and regular. After a moment he began to snore.

"Harry," a quiet voice said from behind him, and Remus was there, a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" Harry asked, disbelieving. "I heard the screams."

Remus bit his lip, concentrating briefly as he healed Snape's throat. "He was hallucinating, I think. He was trying an experiment-"

"I know," Harry said grimly. "I saw him this morning. He was saying weird things, but I thought he'd snapped out of it when I left him." He paused, remembering Snape's vicious epithets about Remus, and looked up at his former teacher. "Did you hear anything he said?"

Remus shook his head, still looking down at the sleeping man. "No," he said quietly. "I was getting him some blankets." He gestured to a doorway, where a pile of blankets rested.

Harry nodded, relieved. At least Remus had been spared Snape's taunts this time. "Um," he said. "Sorry about the door."

Remus shook his head. "That doesn't matter. It's a good thing you came. You saved his life."

"Oh, you would have got there in time," Harry said reassuringly, and only then noticed that Remus's fingers trembled, holding his wand. "Remus‚Ä¶ are you all right?"

"I'm a little ill," Remus admitted. "And I haven't been sleeping well."

As the adrenaline surge faded, Harry felt guilt rise up. There were lines on his face that hadn't been there two months ago, and dark circles smudged under his eyes "Right," he said. "Well, I'll take care of this. I'll get Snape to hospital, fix the door. You get some sleep."

"Are you sure?" Remus asked, and Harry knew it was a measure of his exhaustion that he would even consider the idea.

"Yes," Harry said, with more certainty than he felt. "I can take care of it."

Remus nodded and rose to his feet, swaying gently. "All right, James," he said, then grimaced. "Harry. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry ducked his head. "That's okay."

"I'm very tired," Remus said apologetically.

"Honestly, it's fine," Harry said quickly. "I'll come back, okay? Tomorrow?"

"Of course," Remus said, and began walking towards the stairs. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

  
**If in some smothering dreams you too could pace**   


Remus followed orders, and went back to bed.

 

"You can't avoid this any more," Sirius says, suddenly appearing at the foot of the bed.

"Please," Remus whispers, crawling forward, reaching out to him. Sirius shakes his head and stands up, just out of reach. Remus watches his fingers clutch at air.

"I'm dead, Moony," Sirius says. He grimaces. "I'm dead and done."

"No," Remus insists hopelessly. "I can't. It hurts too much."

Sirius nods. "I know."

"You've been dead for nearly three years," Remus argues. "If you were really gone, why didn't it hurt this much before?"

Sirius sighs. "Because, Moony, the war is over. _You're not needed any more_."

Remus shudders. "You don't even speak like you."

"I'm you," Sirius says, though his face is still the same. "This is all that's left of me. You're all that's left of me."

Remus balances on that slanted edge between dream and life, and feels himself inevitably slide towards the wrong side.

But because this is still dream, he dreams that Sirius might hear him say "I love you." And in a dream of a whisper, he hears the reply.

 

He woke up, and could not avoid it any more.

They pained him more than any transformation, the sobs. They were hard, harsh noises, these inhalations that tore at his throat, the exhalations that sounded more animal than any noise Remus Lupin should make. Tears and snot soaked his pillow as he hunched over it, and wept and cursed and howled.

When it was finished, his throat was raw. He ached. He shook, and could not stop shaking.

"Sirius, give me strength," he whispered, and knew it was foolish. Sirius had never _given_ him strength. Sirius had _been_ his strength.

And Sirius was dead and done.

 

  
**Behind the wagon that we flung him in**   


Severus opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't. Lucius Malfoy's face was hovering over his own, pale, perfect features creased with concern.

"I'm sorry," he tried to whisper, but though his lips moved, no voice came out.

The face smiled down at him and then spun towards the door.

"He's awake!" he called, and the relief in his voice brought Severus to the edge of tears.

He struggled to push himself into a sitting position, but young arms were there to assist him. Too young, he realised. The face was the same, and the eyes, and the hair was long over the shoulders, the same affectation of elder days that Lucius had carefully cultivated.

But he was so young.

"Draco," he croaked.

Draco smiled again, then frowned. "Where's that bloody nurse?" he muttered, and made as if to shout again.

"No, no," Severus said. "I'm well."

"Not really. You've been asleep for nearly a day," Draco said, and there was affectionate exasperation in his voice. He shrugged. "But as you say."

"I would like to speak to you, without interference by irritating mediwizards," Severus said. His voice was becoming clearer. "I haven't seen you in some time, Draco."

"Well, before it ended, I was supposed to be dead," Draco said wryly. "And afterwards‚Ä¶ I've been in the Amazon Basin. There's rumours of a hidden Death Eater base, and Shacklebolt thinks some of the survivors might have regrouped there." He grimaced. "I was, apparently, an appropriate choice."

Severus had known of the hunt, but not of who was hunting. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a clumsy fool, to so use Draco's knowledge of Death Eater circles and dark magics without considering the betrayal it entailed.

Something of this must have showed in his face.

"Really, it's fine," Draco reassured him, sweeping his hair back over his shoulder. Something like awe crept into his voice. "The plants, Professor‚Ä¶ you should see them. There are varieties in those jungles that most English textbooks will tell you have been extinct for decades. It's a Potions Master's dream."

"You look very like your father," Severus said neutrally. Behind the mask, emotion roiled, but he knew that nothing had crept into voice or expression. Guilt was there, and grief, but also to his surprise, relief. If this was Draco, and not Lucius, then he, Severus, was still alive, and damnation had not yet come.

It would, in the end. But there was time yet.

"Everyone says that," Draco said, and emotions no longer played freely over his face. He had, like Snape, retreated to the calm blankness to which they'd been trained. "It's the hair. No good hairdressers in the jungle. Can't get it cut."

"How did you know to come?" Severus asked, frowning. "Surely, even Shacklebolt wouldn't compromise your position with an owl?"

Draco shook his head. "It was Potter. He called for me as soon as he'd brought you here."

Snape sat bolt upright, the taste of bile sour in his mouth. "Potter," he said, remembering. "Harry Potter saved my life."

Draco's gaze was sombre, and understanding as only Draco could be. "Yes," he said soberly. "I'm afraid he did."

 

  
**And watch the white eyes writhing in his face**   


Harry watched Draco Malfoy stalk towards him down the hospital corridor like the villain from a black and white film, all pale skin and hair and black cloak.

"He's discharging himself now," Malfoy said. Then, before Harry could react, could protest that Snape should stay, a danger to himself and others, Malfoy hit him in the shoulder, not lightly.

"You shouldn't have called me, you monumental prick," he snarled.

Harry was faster; he could have put his wand at Malfoy's throat. "I thought you'd want to know," he said instead.

"You endangered my concealment, Potter," Malfoy shouted. "You could have broken it. You could have gotten me killed. Shacklebolt knew better; so should you!"

There was a staged quality to his rage. He was angry, because he knew he should have been, at the danger to himself, to the mission. Malfoy's eyes were an even paler grey in the dying light. There was a proverb, Harry thought, that all grey cats looked black in the dark.

In the dark, Malfoy's grey had passed for white.

But the war was over now, and Harry didn't care about Malfoy's mission.

"When you wanted out, when you came to me with the plans," Harry said. "You said 'You need me, Potter.' Do you remember?"

Malfoy snorted. "Yes."

"Well, I don't need you any more," Harry said, and had the satisfaction of watching Malfoy's pale eyes go wide in unrehearsed shock. Better than any magic.

"Harry?" a light voice asked, and when he turned, Hermione was coming towards him on quick, light feet. "I got your Owl. Is Professor Snape recovered?"

Malfoy spoke before Harry could: "He's fine. He's checking himself out."

"He shouldn't," Harry snapped, but Malfoy was deliberately not listening, reaching out his hand for Hermione to shake. The motion briefly exposed his wrist; white skin and green mark.

She took his hand, even as he tugged the material back over his wrist.

"Draco."

"Granger."

They both smiled.

At any time, Harry had limited patience for their name games, the private, biting half-jokes they'd made together through long, desperate hours of research. His Hermione, and this pale, pointed ghost of Harry's nemesis, poring over ancient tomes, arguing over the exact placement of symbols, the arithmantical implications of Voldemort's choice of an obscure, almost-lost form of Pictish runes‚Ä¶ He hadn't liked it then, either.

But then, it had been necessary. Now, like so much else, their wary not-quite-friendship should have been over. It shouldn't be here, palpable, ready to resume after months of absence, of no contact.

"Hermione," he said. "Let's go. I promised to visit Remus."

"I thought that was tomorrow?" Hermione asked. "Didn't you say you'd told him to sleep today?"

Harry felt himself stiffen. "Obviously, you have better things to do," he bit out. "I'll visit him, then, while you play catch up."

Malfoy's eyebrow lifted an infinitesimal, condescending fraction, but his mouth was wry, acknowledging defeat. Hermione would give Harry hell for it later, but she loved Remus. She'd come, and Malfoy would understand that Harry didn't want his intrusion in their life. In her life.

"All right," Hermione said.

"What?"

"I'll have a cup of tea with Draco and meet you at home. I'll visit Remus tomorrow. Don't want to exhaust him with too many visitors."

Her voice wasn't even angry. She reached up and kissed Harry on the cheek, one slim hand momentarily cool on the back of his neck as he stared at her, unable to speak past his shock.

Malfoy's face was suddenly, carefully blank.

"Fine," Harry stammered. "Fine." He stood, uncertain for a moment, then turned to leave.

Behind him, Malfoy murmured something. Hermione laughed.

 

  
**His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin**   


Remus stared at his face in the mirror as the light died, and couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

He looked at the small vial in his hand. It had been so simple, after all, to acquire this. A Muggle solution to a magical problem, he thought wryly. Severus would probably find that the most offensive part of the whole affair, that Remus had gone back to the inventions of his mother's people.

Remus knew that he would have been more than happy to supply his own solution.

Once, because of luck, and James, the wolf had failed to kill Severus Snape. And now, because of the wolf, and Harry, Remus Lupin had failed to save him.

Snape now had the right to hate both Lupin and his horrifying passenger, not merely the old terror of his schooldays. Remus hoped that that the justified hate would bring the man some peace. Then, Snape had never needed reasons for his hatred.

Dusk slipped into true night. He drank the vial, sat down, facing the mirror, and waited through the pain.

After a while, something flickered at the edge of the mirror.

 

Remus turns around. "Hello," he says, smiling.

Sirius's face is grave. "You're an idiot, Moony," he says soberly.

"You're only my imagination," Remus tells him, yawning. He is very tired.

Sirius shakes his head. "When even your own imagination tells you you're an idiot," he says soberly, "you know you've really fucked it up."

Remus yawns again. "Oh, I do know that." He waits, but Sirius is silent. "Where are James and Lily?" he asks, finally.

Sirius paces over to the window, looks out over the dark street. "They're coming," he says, but nothing more, and Remus has to be content with that.

"I killed Bellatrix Lestrange," he says into their silence. "For you, I said, but really, it was for me."

Sirius doesn't turn around. "I know. I'm you."

"Her pure blood that she was so proud of," Remus murmurs. "Red as anyone's, really. Tasted the same." He sighs, and closes his eyes.

"Not yet, Moony," Sirius says. "It's not over yet."

Remus is very tired, but he forces himself awake and goes to stand beside Sirius at the window, not quite touching him.

They are waiting for their friends.

 

  
**If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood**   


Severus nearly turned and stalked away again when he saw that Potter was moving towards the same door as himself.

They met on the stoop, where they glared at each other.

"I swear under Merlin, Mordred and Morgase to harm neither you nor yours, until the debt is repaid," Severus said, and waited for the boy's response, hating him.

"What are you doing here?" Potter demanded instead. "You're sick. He doesn't need to see you."

"He does," Severus said bitterly. "It's full moon in a week."

The boy's arrogant, stubborn face was uncomprehending. "And?" he persisted, knocking on the door again.

"I need something from him for the potion," Severus snapped. It would have to be the old potion, until he could refine the process on the new. Weeks of research, experimentation; wasted. "Hair, or skin. Fingernails, at a pinch. You would know this, Potter, if you'd ever paid attention in class! And if you were a true wizard, you'd know the correct response to a wizard's debt!"

Potter's response was to ignore him and knock louder. "Remus!" he called. "Remus!" He frowned. "He must be asleep," he muttered, and slumped. Turning to leave, he walked partway down the street, then hesitated and turned, still slouching. "Under Merlin, Mordred and Morgase, I accept the debt, and you, for so it binds us," he drawled casually. "Okay?"

There was no ceremony to this derision, not even the stiff formality Severus had striven for.

Severus felt outrage flame within him, and took a step towards Potter, fist clenched around his wand, and only then felt the weight of his debt tight around his neck.

Above them, the window of the main bedroom of Number 12 Grimmauld Place abruptly shattered. Tiny, sharp shards rained down upon their heads, as they instinctively flinched away, then, just as instinctively, turned to the forbidding door of Lupin's home.

Potter had a Seeker's reflexes, a Seeker's sudden turn of speed. But he was halfway down the street, and so this time it was Severus whose wand was fastest, his wand that blew the locked door off its hinges, Severus who pounded up the stairs, flung the door open.

It was Severus who froze in the doorway, staring at the convulsing, dying man on the floor.

 

  
**Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,**   


"Remus!" Harry yelled, and lunged through the door, scanning the room for the source of the attack, but whoever had done it had apparently hit Remus and run.

Remus's chin was covered in bloody foam. His body lifted off the ground, arms and legs tensed to breaking point. It looked a little like Crucio, but not enough. An unknown curse, then. "Do something!" Harry shouted helplessly, scrabbling for his wand. He'd learned some healing spells, been forced to, but never enough. Stupid, so stupid, they were at war! Why hadn't he learned?

"Help him!" he screamed again, trying to press the convulsing man's shoulders into the ground, stop the hideous, tearing dance of muscle.

Snape was stock still in the doorway, but at Harry's cry he lunged forward, pointed his wand at Lupin. "No," he snarled. "You aren't allowed to run! Not you!"

Harry stared at him. Without warning, Remus grabbed his hand, and Harry nearly cried out with the pain, the strength of that grip.

Remus's eyes were wide on Harry's face. "James," he croaked, then, "Lily?"

And died.

Harry felt something in his hand break. He howled.

Afterwards, Harry wasn't sure what exactly had happened next. Dumbledore had come and Snape had gone. Kingsley had been there, maybe, for some of it, while he sat on the floor and held Remus's hand, and would not let go.

And then someone must have told Hermione, because the next thing he remembered with clarity was her gentle tug on his wrist, until he released the dead man on the floor. His own hand was purple and swollen. Hermione hissed, and reached for her wand.

She healed the break before he could tell her not to.

"Come home with me, Harry," she said, looking only at him. "I need you home with me."

He went with her. On the way, he thought of how quickly she had mended his bones and of other, incurable, fractures.

 

  
**Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud**   


"Silver," Snape said grimly. "Amyl nitrate, in fact."

Dumbledore's face was calm. Severus wondered if he'd expected this.

"He knew what he was doing, Headmaster," Snape snarled, then: "Coward."

"No, Severus."

"Coward," Severus insisted. "Traitor. Gutless, spineless, white-livered-" He paced, his face livid. "It wasn't over, the fool," he snarled. "Not for him! There's a shattered world to rebuild!"

"Be still," Dumbledore suggested, too mild to be a command.

And Severus was still, but only for a moment. "He always followed his friends," he muttered. He meant this to be scathing indictment, but it came out wrong: reluctant, accepting, appalled.

Dumbledore nodded. 'Yes," he said softly, and sighed. "But you are right, Severus. There is a world to rebuild." He looked Severus in the eye, and he froze in place.

"No," he breathed.

"The Order has demanded much of you, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "No one will blame you if you decide your part is over."

Severus wanted to howl. Their final triumph, his final defeat.

Because he had sworn to use any means, _any means_ to protect his world. He had thought, when Lucius died, that it might, at last, be done, that he might be done. And then he had remembered his obligations to the werewolf, to Potions itself.

And now Dumbledore was telling him that he was still _necessary_.

"My part," he ground out, "Will never be over."

"Good," Dumbledore said, and Severus knew that this, too, had been expected.

 

  
**Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--**   


"Oh, Harry."

Harry took a sip from his mug of tea. The fire in their small living room was hot, he thought, and so was the liquid, but they didn't seem to warm him.

"Was it‚Ä¶ Oh, God. Poor Remus. Poor you."

Kneeling beside his chair, she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Why do you care?" he muttered. Her hand froze.

"What?" she asked.

"You didn't care before. Catching up. If you'd come with me‚Ä¶"

Her hand withdrew. "Are you blaming me?" she asked. "For Remus's death? Are you _blaming_ me?" Her voice revealed no anger, not yet. Just a deep astonishment.

Harry put the mug down. "You know healing spells," he said. "You could have saved him."

The fire was the room's only light, and Hermione's face was hidden behind the shadow of her hair. But her voice was easier to read, colder than the ice that gnawed at his heart. "I love you," she said. "And this‚Ä¶ this is a terrible time for you. But the way I see it is that either you make a concerted effort to stop being a selfish prick, or I leave you. Because I cannot take much more of this without compromising myself."

"Where would you go?" Harry snapped. "Back to Ron? He'd take you. Or to your precious _Draco_?"

"Ron? Draco _Malfoy_? Harry, are you _mad_?" Her voice was high with unfeigned astonishment.

"Maybe," Harry said, before he could stop the word. "I think yeah, Hermione, I might be. A bit."

In the silence, the mantelpiece clock rang midnight.

"I don't think you're mad," Hermione said softly. "Not‚Ä¶ insane."

"But I'm not completely sane, either."

"Harry‚Ä¶" Hermione stood, paced by the fire. "No one's sane. None of us are complete. How could we be?" She laughed, a brittle sound. "I can't touch my books. As if avoiding magic will save me now from what it did to me then. Ron tells me he has to spend hours laying wards before he can sleep, and even then, any tiny noise, a moth, will wake him, certain he's going to die. Cho never comes out of that fucking mansion, never speaks face to face with anyone. Draco wears long sleeves, all the time, even in the jungle, and won't look in a mirror because of the face that looks back at him. Neville's stutter is so bad he's practically mute. And now, now, Snape nearly kills himself with reckless experiments, when he's the most meticulous man I've ever met and Remus‚Ä¶"

"‚Ä¶ just kills himself," Harry finished.

"Yes." Hermione collapsed into her chair, stared into the flames. A log collapsed, sending sparks showering against the grating. "We don't have to be sane, Harry, not yet. We don't have to be whole. We only have to continue. To give sanity and wholeness a chance."

Harry looked at her form, limned in the light of the fire, and thought that she was the bravest person he had ever seen. Small, and weary, and sad; and yet, still, a woman who fiercely gave herself to hope.

Something hard and hot rose in his throat. "Remus is dead," he choked.

Hermione turned her head towards him, but did not move. "I know," she said softly.

"It's over," he croaked. "It's over, no one else should die. It's over, it shouldn't happen‚Ä¶"

"Oh, Harry."

"I loved him, Hermione." He bowed his head, hot tears dripping down his face and into his hands, gripping one against the other. Eyes clenched tight, he didn't see her move, but felt her arms around his shoulders, her small, strong hands gripping his own. "It shouldn't have happened!"

"I know," she whispered, and her voice was soft and strangled, so that he knew she was crying too. "But Harry, my dear heart, my lion heart, it did."

Neither of them were talking about Remus now; not him alone. All the horrors of the past two years of war seemed held at bay only by the tight strain of their desperate, clutching hands.

"What can we do, then? What is there to do?"

She was silent a long time. "We shouldn't forget," she said. "We should remember, and hope."

"That's all?" Harry demanded.

"That's the start," she said, her voice steady enough. But her head was against his, and her tears were on his cheeks, as wet as his own.

He reached for her, tugged her unresisting into his lap. His mouth was against hers, his fingers digging into her arms. Between them, they made a warmth that owed nothing to the fire.

 

  
**My friend, you would not tell with such high zest**   


Severus was very still.

"See?" his companion asked, a note of triumph in his voice. "See what I mean?"

"Oh, yes," Severus breathed. He was reverent, hushed. He felt a sudden urge to take off his shoes: this was a holy place.

In the dappled green outside this small gap in the trees, strange, colourful birds sang. A jaguar's cough was harsh, some distance away. Severus registered and filed these new noises, but only distantly. He was staring at the purple flowers of love-in-idleness, innocently rooted in the decaying remains of a felled giant, surrounded by a ring of bright red fungi. They were so full of magic that they glowed with their own soft light.

Carefully, he bent over them, uprooting two of the tiny bulbs. He would leave the rest to flourish.

"Those aren't even the best specimens," Draco said, his voice boyish with eager pride. "There's more, deeper in. Can't Apparate; too many trees. We'd have to hike." He hesitated. "How long can you stay here, sir?" he asked formally. "When do they want you back?"

Severus straightened, looked at him. Draco's hair was shorter now, slicked back. Lucius's features were still clear in his unlined face, but this was a Lucius he had known a long time ago. When they had been barely more than children, and still hoping.

The light was green here. The heat was stifling, yet both men wore long-sleeved shirts. Neither had commented on this to the other.

"I think," Severus said, "That I can stay for some time. For as long as I am needed."

 

  
**To children ardent for some desperate glory**   


Harry wakes.

Remus and Sirius are sitting at the end of his bed, one on each side. Separated by the white-covered expanse of the covers, they do not touch.

"Hello," Harry says, drowsy. "Is it time to get up?" He can smell bacon. Molly Weasley must be frying them breakfast.

"Not yet," Remus tells him. His mouth twists wryly. "Not time yet."

Sirius grins in a flash of white teeth.

Harry looks around the room and blinks. This is not Grimmauld Place, but his bed. The bed he bought with Hermione. Molly Weasley doesn't cook for him anymore.

He sits up. "Wait," he says. "You're dead. You're done for."

"Dead," Remus agrees. "But never done for."

"Surely you've learned that?" Sirius questions, running a hand through his hair impatiently. "I thought you were clever, Harry."

"It never ends," Harry says, angry, then, more resigned: "It's never done. And no one ever gets an ending, do they?"

Sirius stands up. "No," he agrees. "That's the good bit."

Remus stands too. "Or the bad bit," he sighs. "Hard to tell, really."

"Can't you tell me?" Harry asks urgently.

"Sorry," Sirius says, more gentle than he ever was in life. "It's something you have to discover for yourself."

He would ask again anyway, but they are fading, their forms becoming little more than dusky outlines filled with dancing dust mites. They reach out to each other with hands made of light. Harry thinks that possibly their shining bodies touch before the light diffuses into the sunlight beaming through his window, but he can't be sure.

 

Harry sat up in bed. He was crying, and this did not surprise him; but he was also smiling, and this did. After a while he washed his face and walked downstairs. Hermione was frying breakfast for two.

"That looks good," he said awkwardly, then took a deep breath. "About those charities‚Ä¶"

She glanced up from the eggs. "Yes?" she asked warily, mouth stubborn. Whatever progress they had made in the night could be swept away, in this moment. He almost wanted to do it. Break everything down, let Hermione free.

That might be an act of real heroism.

But he looked at her, in the late morning light, with the dust mites dancing around her tangled mass of hair. "Pick out one or two," he said. "One or two to start with. I can't make promises."

Her smile was luminous. "No one will ask for promises," she told him, and while he thought that she was wrong, that many people would expect promises, especially from him, he was happy to kiss her in the kitchen, and eat his breakfast sitting across from her at the table, teasing her about too much salt in the eggs.

This was not an ending. He would have to endure, and live, and it would be hard.

Living on was not a tragic ending. Neither was it a happily ever after.

But they were living. There could be a sweetness in that.

 

  
**The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori.**   



End file.
